Can a bus be fueled by Lincoln Logs?

                I should have known something was amiss when the tour bus finally arrived and I pointed out to my colleagues that, “um…that back window is plywood… painted black.”  Let me back up a little.

                I was in DC recently for my Excellence in Government Fellowship's Business Acumen session.  One of our benchmarks included leadership lessons learned at the Battle of Gettysburg.  To get the full effect, we were to travel there by bus and take a guided tour by a retired government executive who has created a very informative lesson concerning the successes and failures on both sides of the War Between the States.

                We were supposed to be at the Partnership for Public Service building on New York Avenue early enough to board the bus and leave by 7:00 am.  This required me to cut short my much needed beauty sleep and forgo the free breakfast at my hotel and be all aggressive about Deonte at Starbucks (he had a nametag, people) opening the doors at precisely 6:00 am even though he was not finished stocking the baked goods display, causing him to under-sweeten my Trenta Black Iced Tea, four Splenda, no water. As a former food service person, I totally understand why he did it.  I ain’t mad at him, y’all.

                My classmate from San Antonio (hey Cory!) and I shared a cab driven by a man who was unhappy to not be taking us to the aero puerto (that’s Spanish, although he was not) and dropped us off at 6:30 on the nose as we are not ones to dawdle all up and through here.  Cory, too, is from the boonies.  Oddly enough we went to school less than 20 miles from each other in the wilds of East Texas.  However, as neither of us had a mode of transport other than our bodies (and you know I wasn’t traveling any further than the bus stop in those days, at least voluntarily), we never met each other until this program. The world is tee-niney, dear readers.  Tee-niney indeed.

                So, I was ready to get on the bus as snacks were promised and I needed a full stomach so as to fully realize all the American Spirit that lies within me and learn something.  At least I hoped to learn something other than I freckle like the dickens when exposed to too much sun.  I actually already knew that and it doesn’t even have to be the sun; a flashlight or bright lamp does the trick most of the time.  I sure do hope freckles are deemed sexy at some point in my lifetime.  Dare to dream, right?

                Those of my classmates who are from out of state (locals had the option of driving their own cars) had assembled at the appointed time and location and were awaiting the bus(es) when 7 o’clock came and went just like I did around the corner to the Subway (sandwich shop, not public transport) as they now serve breakfast.  As the hour changed from 7 to 8 with still no bus, our fearless point of contact (hey Lindsay!) made some phone calls and seemingly ascertained that the buses were in fact en route having been caught in traffic.  As the hour slid toward 9, there were more calls and no bus and the report became the buses had been caught behind a wreck on the interstate.  More classmates left, Subway did a fairly brisk breakfast shift that morning, as did the quickie mart in the lobby of the beautiful art deco building at 1100 New York Avenue.

                After several comments ranging from “Did they say New York Avenue or an avenue in New York?” and “were they behind a wreck or in a wreck?” the buses finally arrived at the ripe old time of 10:15.  Wisely I chose to board the bus that was not powered by a wood-burning stove and off we went to learn of many things leadershippy from His Lincoln-ness.  After we had been driving for more than an adequate amount of time to have left District of Columbia city/state limits, we received a phone call from one of the other points of contact that someone on the wood-burning bus had called her and said that the bus was in fact driving 30 mph with the flashers on as they were in the throes of a breakdown.  When our fearless Lindsay asked our bus driver if he could contact his co-worker driving the breaking-down bus, he replied, “No.”  So, we texted one of the other passengers and had them call us from the area near the ear, nose and throat of their bus driver who stated matter-of-factly that they were not about to breakdown.  When it was ascertained that he did not know what he was talking about, our fearless Lindsay stated, “We must go and get our classmates.  No EIG-er left behind”, while American flag-clad gymnasts flipped behind her holding sparklers and grown men wept at her selfless Americanism.  I may have overstated that last part but she was impressive to say the least.  And she was duly recognized by our fearless coach, Feli (hey Feli!).  There are many fearless people at the Partnership for Public Service, y’all.

                After it was decided that we would rescue them and it was also noticed that they were not behind us, we had to exit to turn around on the car-packed highway to get them.  In moments of crisis I am very calm but also downright pedestrian in my grammar.  My suggestion to “bust off across the median” was wisely ignored.  I did that once in a truck.  I was asleep at the time.  It didn’t end well.

                Once we re-traced our steps, as it were, we found that the driver of the wood-burning bus had not been truthful to their whereabouts.  We then called the bus and through the magic of GPS found that not only had the bus driver been driving too slow, he had also taken the wrong exit and was in Virginia, not Maryland.  Once we got there the bus driver was adamant that nothing was wrong with his bus even as there was black smoke running up the back of said bus.  As our comrades boarded our bus, he took off in his bus, very quickly I might add, shouting about his intended retirement.  Well not so much shouting as it was being reported by his former passengers. 

                Upon our return to the highway, we had driven another twenty minutes or so and I saw the exit for College Park.  To those from the DC area, you know that this means we are FAR, FAR from Pennsylvania.  I commented that we should just exit at the Ikea and have meatballs for lunch.  Although many concurred, we trudged ever onward toward the Burg that is Gettys. 

                We finally arrived and went straight to the buffet that was to be the mid-point of the day.  Nothing against the proprietors of General Pickett’s Buffet, but what I did not need prior to heading out into the open fields to hear tales of leadership gone awry and poor communication in spite of the talent on the Southern side was meatloaf and mashed taters.  I was weighted down, y’all.  Walking sleepy and stumbling toward an actual ledge atop Flattop or Tabletop, I forget which one.

                Suffice it to say, I did learn a lot about leadership from the battle but I learned much more from the trip getting there.  Some of the lessons I learned from the wood-burning bus besides never get on a conveyance that has wooden parts unless it is the paneled side of an estate wagon are:

1.       Never be too afraid to speak up in the face of poor decisions.

2.       Never lie about your whereabouts; you will be found out, and then silently judged.

3.       Never leave your team behind.  Everyone is important, especially those with granola bars and water.

4.       Never, under any circumstances, eat meatloaf on a walking tour.

5.       The Subway at 11^th and New York Avenue in DC is open for breakfast and there isn’t a line.

And that is all I’m saying.

It's about to get real up in here, y'all

                As many of you know, I have been blogging about my Dad living with me for almost two years.  I can’t believe it’s really been that long but it has.  Twenty one months to be exact.  Now, I didn’t really know what to expect when he arrived but I figured it would be blog-worthy, hence the blog; thank you Liz Shellman for planting that seed.

                Now, it has not been an easy transition as regular readers have learned but it also hasn’t been as bad as it could have been.  Granted my Dad is not the easiest person to live with and while I understand that he is still, after 13 years, grieving the loss of my mother, there are personality quirks that he possesses that I get and there are those that continue to confound me week in and week out.

                In full disclosure, I have admitted some of my own quirks like the all-consuming need to have a house that smells ‘pretty’ and feels ‘fancy’; two phrases to which my father likes to roll his eyes ever so sarcastically.  He reminds me of a dramatic teenager.  He reminds me of, well, me when I was in my mid-to-late teens.  My early teens were much more about being loved by all and sundry and I was more obsequious than anything.

                My 15 years in federal healthcare has given me insight into what many veterans of his generation think, feel and expect.  But it wasn’t until recently that I even considered that his life-long anger may have been undiagnosed PTSD.  Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is something that you read about, hear about on TV with those returning from war in the now and even the subject of a couple of movies, mostly on Lifetime and usually starring Meredith Baxter-no-longer-Birney-now-a-lesbian. 

                It had never occurred to me that he might have a legitimate reason to be angry and distrustful.  I never really gave much thought to why he is almost agoraphobic and seems scared of the world in general.  I always assumed he was just a chip off the old block as his father was someone who, for the longest time, was my frame of reference for cruel and hateful.  And I never really stopped to even think of why he would be so unhappy; that he truly hated himself, as he admitted me to me one evening.  When I asked him why he hated himself, he seemed confused and asked me, “don’t everybody hate themselves?”  To which I answered, “No, they don’t.  I don’t.  And you shouldn’t”.  What I didn’t say was, I did until I turned 40 and finally decided that I was who I was and if people didn’t like me, I was far too old to care about that.  Jesus understands me and that is all I needed to know.  That Jesus understands my Dad was something that I really put no effort into broaching as a subject.

                I know that some have asked if I feel I make fun of my Dad in my blog and I initially was defensive, stating that I was simply reporting facts, not trying to make fun of him.  When in all honesty, there was an edge to the humor; a need to distance myself from him and who I thought he represented.  For so long I didn’t want to be from where I was from.  I didn’t want to be from a family that was lower-middle to middle-middle class, depending on the job situation.  I didn’t want to have so many relatives who had been to jail, who lived in trailers, which I did and still refer to as pre-fabricated housing because it sounds funny and I can then laugh at ‘those folks’, not realizing I was hurting people who are good people in difficult financial straits.  As if money is any indication of the quality of a person.

                I always wanted to be somebody other than who I was.  I never saw what was so great about me; what was so special.  I never put much thought into whether I was smart or funny or ambitious or loyal or any of those traits that I have come to appreciate.  I was only focused on what I didn’t have, which was money, looks and self-esteem.  Truth be told, I wasn’t aware of self-esteem enough to know I didn’t have any.  Like my father, I thought everyone hated themselves.    Awareness of this destructive mindset came much later upon inward reflection due to the honesty of friends from high school and college.  You know who you are and I love you very, very much.

                Growing up gay (and so far in the closet I was almost homophobic) in a Southern Baptist family in Texas and Mississippi wasn’t the easiest thing to do, to be sure.  But when I told my Dad at the ripe old age of 24, he said he already knew and he didn’t care.  It was not the reaction I expected and for some reason I never really appreciated how hard that must have been for him.  I already wasn’t the son that he expected as his oldest; his namesake (loyal readers already know how close I came to being Terryll Odis Thompson III).  As I’ve previously discussed, I was the plaid koala bear in my family and after a childhood of trying to fit in, I have spent most of my adult life trying to not fit in with the countrier of my relatives, to the point that my nieces and nephews are apparently under the impression that I spent my childhood at boarding school or some other elsewhere and want to show me how to ride a horse or drive a four-wheeler.  When I remind them that I actually knew how to do all of those things, they seem confused as if a member of the royal family had suddenly appeared next to them at the Dollar General, buying generic aspirin and Little Debbie snack cakes.

                June is Gay Pride month, for those of you who don’t know.  And I attended the parade and festival in San Francisco, with some friends.  My surprisingly supportive father asked why I had never attended Pride and I told him, half-jokingly, that in order to attend a Pride event, one would need to be proud.  And until very recently I was most certainly not proud.  I wanted to be gay even less than those members of my family who are still not supportive and those who until this very moment didn’t have confirmation.  I apologize for springing this on you, although to be fair, how surprised could you be?  You’ve met me before.

                From the ages of 12 through 40, I was your typical self-loathing Southern Baptist homosexual the likes of who publish painfully narcissistic, poorly realized coming of age memoirs with prodigious efficiency.  This disclosure also helps explain why I talk and dress ‘like that’.  I won’t go into any memoir-y reflections today (you’ll have to wait for the publication that you know is forthcoming).  Suffice it to say, I had spent so much time thinking about my issues I never really gave any thought to anyone else’s; especially my Dad’s.

                And I realized that as much as I expected him to hate me, he didn’t.  And I never gave him credit for that.  Unfairly, I gloss over the fact that my mother went to her grave devastated and convinced that I was wrong about my orientation.  So desperate for her “sweet, precious boy” to be normal, she tried to find me a girlfriend, in the form of her nurse, as she lay dying in the hospital.  It took me more than 10 years to find it within myself to feel as if I wasn’t a walking disappointment and to actually think I was worth something.   

                 And the whole time my Dad was steadfast in his support, constantly saying he loved me and didn’t care that I was gay.  And for some reason I didn’t care that he didn’t care.  He had his role, written in my teenaged mind, and I refused to allow him to re-write it.  I took all my hurt out on him.  How do you apologize for something like that?

                As much as I expected him to toe the line when he moved in, he didn’t.  He also didn’t try to get on my nerves and has been exceptionally accepting of the changes I have forced upon him.  He eats what I cook, he voluntarily washes dishes and recycles with the fervor of a dyed-in-the-(fair trade)-wool tree hugger.  He even acquiesces to my request for him to wear something other than his house shoes (slippers to my Yankee friends; scuffs to my friends in Lafayette County) to the Wal-Mart when, truth be told, who cares what he wears?  I should just be happy he’s still around.  And I am. 

                What I wouldn’t give for one more minute with my mother.  And I am keenly aware that I have a limited amount of minutes with him as he approaches his 72^nd birthday later this month.  Why can’t I just enjoy what he wants to do?  Why do I have to put so many parameters to our relationship?  I know we aren’t what the other necessarily wanted in a father/son, but we are what we have.  And I am grateful that I got his sense of humor and his generosity.  I am less thankful that I got his temper, short legs and lack of posterior.  On another note, why can’t I just say butt?

                For better or for worse, I am what I am and before someone bursts into song, I will say that although I have sometimes begrudgingly cared for him these last two years, I hope that it still counts as love.  We’ve discussed how God doesn’t have a last nerve and I hope my Dad doesn’t either; if he does, I haven’t found it yet.  Should I one day find his or he mine, we have coping mechanisms in place.  He has Zoloft and rib eye steaks.  I have great friends, thrift stores and the location of said Zoloft and rib eye steaks.  And I don’t really think I need to say anything else.

20 Questions, minus 12, plus 1

               Very recently, I am loath to admit, I was not the shining beacon of Christianity that you have come to admire.  No, dear readers, those who bore witness did not see Jesus in me, to be sure.  Now it wasn’t so much what I said or even that there could have been choreography (I believe some people refer to it as gesturing), there was simply a loosening of my self-imposed limitations for public displays of my unhappiness.  And other than the occasional forced wrangling of a wayward server at a dining establishment, I am usually free of anything bordering on pedestrian behavior.  And I’m not talking about persons in crosswalks.  Let me elaborate. 

                As you may or may not know, I am not a fan of bicyclists.  So much so that it sometimes causes me pain.  Now I would like to say, before you get all out of sorts, that I do not hate bicyclists, that would be un-Christian, and I even have some very close friends who are cyclists.  However, were I to come across them on their velocipede (because I am that guy) I would want to hit them…just…so.  Mind you, I don’t want anyone to die; I just want them out of my way and off of my streets.

                The main reason is I cannot stand the fact that they are selfish.  Allow me to elaborate again.  They can’t decide if they want to be a car and share the road or something far more nefarious and ignore stop signs and traffic lights.  At least the motorcyclists who weave in and out of traffic illegally state their obnoxiousness through loud tail pipes and ponytails.  All you see of those blasted cyclists are skintight clothes and weird little helmets.  For those outfits alone, they should be punished.  Because, I can assure you, no one wearing spandex should actually be allowed to do so.  Those who have the body to pull it off don’t seem to feel the need, apparently.

                But as I am a benevolent chronicler, I will give them a free pass as I have other questions to share, dear readers.  And some of those would be:

1.       Why do I get weird songs stuck in my head when I hear my father whistle?  And I don’t mean weird as in “did he make that song up?” I mean weird as in “why on earth is he whistling ‘Little Drummer Boy’ in June and why does it make me think of Janet Jackson’s ‘Black Cat’?”

2.       Why does my father ask me if I brought leftovers, specifically butter beans, when I come home after a Friday night Happy Hour, where I go to eat inexpensive food whilst my posse drinks it up?  Where does he think I go after work, the VFW Hut? 

3.       Why does he consider all of my friends who are not fat or a redneck to be a dork or a nerd?  And, yes, I have plenty of non-dorky friends, thank you very much.  Well, not PLENTY, but some.

4.       Why does he insist on wiping his spills on the counter/stove/table with his hand (not a paper towel or dishrag) and even then only half-heartedly?  Has he decided that the only way for me not to be able to remove him from my home is because he was literally stuck to the counter in the kitchen, like the tomato seeds and strawberry juice that typically reside there until I come home from work to more work?  Did I mention I walk to work?  Uphill.  Both ways.

5.       Why does he insist on sharing the murder report from across the bay (Oakland) and pretend it’s for our little town; acting as if this sleepy little haven of wealthy, older folks is dangerous.  It’s Menlo Park, for goodness sakes; a bedroom community of a bedroom community of San Francisco.  The police report in our weekly paper is filled with such breathtaking crime as random noise disturbances and reports of “suspicious persons”, which always ends up being a case of mistaken identity with either a new gardener or the housekeeper’s grandchildren.

6.       Why does he insist on calling my house, which is on the grounds of the medical center, government housing?  I know it is in the literal sense, but you know what he means.  And, no, I don’t know why it bothers me.  That’s a bit more introspective than I can to be at this juncture.

7.       Why can’t he remember that both the woman who cleans our home and the woman who cuts our hair (also in our home) are both named Clara and they are not, in fact, the same woman?  One is about 23 and pregnant; the other is about 50 and clearly not pregnant or even chubby but he can’t seem to tell them apart. 

8.       On that note, why did “Haircut Clara” say to Lulu, on her first visit to our home, “Do you smell my doggie on my hand?” as she offered her hand in a sign of friendship, like you do when you meet a new dog, and then proceed to tell us her dog had died thirteen, yes you read that correctly, years prior?  Is he stuffed and mounted in her den, I wonder?

 

9.  Why can't I ever figure out how to properly close a blog post?  

These are the questions I have.  If you have answers, please let me know.  And that is all I’m saying.

I'd rather my white trash ghost simply say Boo!

                The other night, The Dad hiccupped in such an aggressive and abrupt way that I didn’t know what was happening and actually reached for his inhaler.  When he caught his breath, he said, “That hiccup was so big it made tears in my eyes as big as a horse turd.”  While I refrained from speaking, my facial expression conveyed all that I needed to convey which he ignored and asked, You know what a hiccup is, don’t ya?”  Before I digressed into a clinical definition of said bodily function, he said, “It’s a fart that got lost!”

                Lately, when he makes any similar statement I have taken to looking to my left as if there is someone there to see me roll my eyes.  It’s not unlike the TV camera I always thought should have been but am now extremely happy was not there filming me for the reality show that is my life.  The Dad has caught on to this practice and asked who I was looking at.  I told him it was the ghost he swears lives in our house.

                While I do believe in ghosts only because I have seen one face to face (still not over that DeeDee Smith, thank you very much), I do not believe that my father has seen any specters in this particular home of mine.  A recent episode of Doctor Who solved the riddle of a ghost by discovering it was a time traveler stuck in a rift in the time/space continuum or somesuch quasi-scientific reason.  I realize that Dr. Who is not actually based on real science, I sure do wish I could have a closet that’s bigger on the inside because my colored chino collection is getting out of control, do you hear me?  However, as Lulu refuses to take sides in this battle, I have decided that there really is a ghost and she agrees with me.

                I can assure you if there were some supernatural force in the immediate area, the activity that takes place in and around my father’s bathroom would most certainly cause that force to flee to the relatively safe confines of purgatory or wherever they’re supposed to go.  Look, I said I believed in them, not that I had a doctorate in paranormal psychology or some other pseudo-science like physics.  What?  Physics is math parading as science.  I took it in both high school and college and still have night terrors.  Two pages of calculations just to get the formula before you enter the numbers to get the answer?  Madness!  Utter and complete madness!  Said the Journalism major.

                Of course when I mentioned to my father that I seemingly believed in his sightings, he began to talk about death and dying as many older adults are prone to do.  You have to understand that I have recently begun to realize that my Dad will be living with me until he passes on from this world.  I have already begun to acclimate myself to the very real possibility that I will forever be a bachelor because who in their right mind would want to marry someone with a 71 year-old belligerent and flatulent teenager?  No, really, who?  I need names, people.

                And with that thought in mind, I gave him a direct order as if he were an employee, that should he feel himself slipping from this realm, that he quickly retire to the yard as to not taint the happy feel of my home because I will never live, again, in a place where someone to my knowledge has died.  And Dee Dee Smith knows exactly what I'm talking about.  I love my house and do not want to move.  No, I don’t think it’s selfish and you’re rude to suggest that.

                The downside of his death, besides the fact that he would be dead, would be that, were it actually possible, he would come back to haunt me.  Of this you can be sure.  I would have history’s first farting, burping ghost who would somehow figure out a way to fry a steak on my stove just to keep it greasy.

                Because being haunted is not a father-son activity in which I would willingly participate.  Although, outside of eating and/or complaining about stupid people, what activity would appeal to us both, is beyond me.  Apparently, from the commotion to my immediate left, one of my father’s current activities is scratching his chest with his middle shirt button unfastened, like Napoleon, without the couth or the short man complex.  When he finished, he didn’t re-button his shirt.  When I asked why he was insistent on being unkempt, he said, “What if I have another itch?”  I can assure you, the Supreme Court hasn't judged anyone as much as I am judging him right at this very moment. 

                Seeing my look of mild revulsion, he sat and smiled like a cat eating sawbriars through a picket fence.  Yes, that’s what he said.  I asked him to spell sawbriars to ensure accuracy. Even I, with my fluency in redneck, several dialects of country and a passing familiarity with Mississippi-specific white trash, was unfamiliar with this particular phrase.  Apparently, sawbriars are a real thing, I binged it, and as you know eating any briar, saw or otherwise, would require one to chew very carefully. 

                And I truly don’t know what else to say at this point. 

If your duck doesn't speak Spanish, will it still answer?

                Prayer has been in the news a lot lately from Oklahoma to the people on ‘Duck Dynasty’.  And I have felt a connection to both.  You see for one-half of third grade, my nomadic family lived in Moore, Oklahoma.  And someone recently asked me if ever watched ‘Duck Dynasty’.  I have to admit that I had not up to that point but I caught an episode the last time I was in DC at a conference.  As a side note, am I the only one who pictures a duck in a sequined gown with huge shoulder pads when someone mentions the name of that show?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

                I didn’t really know what to expect other than familiarity seeing as how the Robertson family is from where I’m from.  West Monroe, Louisiana, is about 75 miles from my birthplace of Lake Providence, Louisiana, and I must admit that their family is not unlike mine except the Thornton/Thompson family has more funny stories and less facial hair but about the same amount of camouflage.  And prayer.  My much more famous not-really-a-cousin, Shelley Rushing Tomlinson of All Things Southern (visit her website) fame, is a friend of the Robertson family and that makes them okay in my book.

                Now I am about to tell on myself but I feel in the interest of full disclosure I must admit that I did not attend church this past Sunday. And it wasn’t to watch football either.  Is that on right now?   I was tired and various other things that are not very good excuses but I simply did not go.  Luckily God does not have a last nerve.  So, my backslidden-but-forgiven-self went to meet my new friend Julie (Hi, Julie!) for brunch.  We met at Starbucks when I complimented her gorgeous robin’s egg blue purse.  Isn’t it interesting the people you meet when you have no filter coupled with the mindset to be ‘met’ on any given day?

                Over brunch we talked about many things one of the being my father’s lifelong aversion to church.  As we have previously discussed, The Dad has not been the greatest of fans of the church itself.  While he professes to believe that church and loving Jesus are good things, he won’t go so far as to actually support either one in word or deed unless the words are “no pancakes (if you don’t go)” or the deed is “eating at fifth Sunday dinners on the ground”.  And while Presbyterians will have coffee and doughnuts before the service, there hasn’t been a time in the last two years where I have witnessed a cheese covered casserole and that hurts me to my very core, y’all.  Although I do not have to have the promise of food to get me to the church on time, it doesn’t hurt to have access to some groceries every now and again.  Can I get an amen?

                To be fair, The Dad has attended about 3 times in the last two years which is quite the feat considering he attended about the many times in the previous 20 years.  The first Sunday he attended in the land of the heathen, I took him to our 9:30 contemporary service, whereupon he accused me of joining a cult as the worshippers had the gall to clap along with the singing and actually seemed to enjoy themselves. 

                Old guard Southern Baptists are like Anglicans who sweat in that they believe in their heart of hearts that anyone who shows any emotion in church other than wretched heartache over their sins is secretly aligned with the unclean and that raising your hands in worship is akin to speaking in tongues and rolling around on the floor like they do at those “other churches” like Assembly of God and Seventh Day Adventists.  No offense.  Now I don’t know what Adventist actually means, and neither do they, but from what I gather it is definitely not “to frown while singing”. That’s what Baptist means, people; you heard it here first.

                And speaking of prayer, My Dad needs some right now as, unlike Jesus, I do have a last nerve and he is clog dancing on it, do you hear me?  Not only did he wake me up this morning by cooking pinto beans with a hambone at 5 o’clock in the AM, but I just discovered he ate my leftover quesadilla for his snack between breakfast and his “official” snack even though he admitted, “wudn’t too good, but [I] ate it anyway”.  And to top it all off he apparently decided he prefers my Garden Salsa Sun Chips to his pork skins and tried to sneak-switch the bags on our respective pantry shelves as if I wouldn’t notice I was eating chicharrones because even when I’m angry I’m at the very least bi-lingual and that is all I’m saying.

Narcoleptic Wildebeests at Church

                 My Daddy loves to drink kool-aid (registered trademark, I feel quite sure) and since he moved in with me I have gotten him used to drinking it  sugar-free.  I initially tricked him but by the time he figured it out, he had admitted to liking it and would rather break his own nose than admit I got one over on him.  I know, I know, fake sugar does as much harm, etc.  Since he is diabetic, I think it’s less bad for him, don’t you?  And if you don’t, then you need to keep it to yourself.  I have to live with this narcoleptic wildebeest, not you.

                When I ask him his favorite flavor, he said ‘red’.  Full disclosure, what he said was, “If God made something better than red kool-aid, he kept it to himself.”  And if you’re Southern, red is a flavor, most especially at Vacation Bible School or VBS.

                Those who were raised in the land mass known as God’s Country know full well to what I am referring.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with this particular school, let me start by saying that I am saddened but not shocked and, bless your poor heathen heart, I will not blame you for the failings of your family and/or community. 

                Vacation Bible School is exactly that.  It is a school where you learn about the Bible while you are on vacation from regular school.  And there are snacks like those butter cookies shaped like doughnut flowers that you could store on your fingers until you ate them.  And kool-aid, always red kool-aid.  It never occurred to any of us that there were other options for beverages.  Orange kool-aid wasn’t kool-aid, it was Tang.  And purple kool-aid was and is gross.  Just like purple jolly ranchers (also trademarked) are gross.  If you actually like the purple ones, you need to do some inward reflection.  Seriously.

                Some of the other unique things about VBS were saying not only the Pledge of Allegiance to the American Flag but also to the Christian Flag and the Bible.  That rustling sound was the rapid arching of the eyebrows of my readers who aren’t sure if I’m kidding.  And I assure you I am not.  Also the older kids got the opportunity to pray out loud for the first time.  And let me tell you that is a terrifying activity.  You don’t know from stress like a 12 year-old who is desperate to sound both reverential enough to not be smitten from on high yet blasé enough about it to not be picked last in kick ball during the activity period.

                And I used to think that I was nervous about praying out loud due to my age.  I found that not to be the case, at least in my family.  Now my Mother, as we have discussed, was 5’5” of Jesus coming at you in white Keds (registered trademark, again) practically glowing with love and devotion and sometimes Elmer’s Glue, as she was often in charge of arts and crafts.  She would pray at the drop of a hat and always with conviction and sometimes in King James English.  My Daddy, on the other hand, was never at church enough to pray about anything other than for there to be enough pork roast for second helpings at the Fifth Sunday dinners on the grounds.  There was a running joke at most of our churches that my mother had “made up” my Daddy to have a father for her children as he was typically working on Sundays, as you often must when your labor is of the manual variety.

                On one of his irregular visits to church, the good preacher, thinking he was dealing with your average man asked my Daddy to close the sermon with a prayer.  My siblings and I said very quick prayers begging Jesus not to strike our Daddy down should he inadvertently cuss or say something inappropriate as he was wont to do.  To our, and the rest of the congregations surprise and confusion, we heard our mother inhale sharply and suddenly start praying.  At the end of the eloquence, everyone wondered, but didn’t dare ask, why she had stepped in so quickly, not knowing that the sharp inhale was due to my Daddy elbowing her to pray as I think he, too, was worried about cussing or worse in the House of the Lord.

                When in doubt, send in the pros.  Can I get an Amen, y’all?         

               

Putting the math in fashion since 1984

                Last week I was in Portland, Oregon for a leadership conference and as the attire for most days was business casual I decided to wear my colored chinos with appropriately coordinated outfits and accessories.  As we have previously discussed, I think I’m a cutie-tootie in my ensembles (pronounced ahn-sahm-blahs because I’m like that) and I receive myriad reactions depending on the audience for these outfits.  Of course, I try to absorb some of the color.  And other than a younger, more attractive homeless contingency, I wasn’t sure what to expect from Portland locals. 

                I was staying at the Heathman Hotel.  I will let that sink in.  If you are confused as to the reference, then you’re fine; I was confused too.  If you recognized that name, know that I am judging you and not just a little bit.  Apparently this hotel featured prominently into that confoundingly popular “Fifty Shades of Nasty” book series, according to some of my friends who shall remain nameless as they should be, but I assure you are not, properly shamed.  Someone asked me if I had read any of the series, of which there are three.  I responded, “If the fans of the books call it ‘mommy porn’, I don’t think I have to read it to make an assumption of the level of yuckiness therein.”  Feel free to disagree.  It won’t be the first time we’ve not seen eye-to-eye.  I was never a fan of the gauchos/poncho trend in the 70s, although I do miss the velvet blazer/plaid wool skirt/knee boot look from the 80s.

                And I said all that to say this, the breakfast breads in the hotel restaurant were so good I was able to stop feeling all ‘ookie’ and partake each morning.  Their croissants were delectable and the scones were just delicious.  I told my Daddy this story and he asked what a scone was and I explained it was like a biscuit made with sugar, which he appreciated but it dampened my ‘fancy’ just a touch.  The manager of the restaurant was the nicest lady who remarked on my outfits every morning and decided I needed a free scone for “being so dapper”.  And since I agreed that I was dapper, I accepted her offer of cinnamon scone with marion berry jam. 

                I always laugh when I see marion berry anything as the former mayor of DC, who was caught on camera smoking crack with a hooker and was then re-elected and to this day serves on the City Council, is named Marion Barry.  I don’t know why I shared that, other than the unspoken crack addiction joke that I’m not sure is even appropriate at this juncture or any juncture for that matter.  Crack is not something to joke about, people, so stop it.  Apparently, if it’s in my head, it’s on the paper, y’all.  No apologies. 

                Anyway, on my jaunts around the city I met all and sundry of Portland.  Some of them weird like the homeless guy I gave money to for he and his woman to eat at Subway (how does he have somebody and I don’t?  At the very least, I have a home…with a roof AND walls).  Also, I had a messenger bag full of $1 coins because the public transportation that I was forced to take under pressure from my peers in the leadership conference ticket kiosk wouldn’t take debit cards and I only had $20 bills so I ended up with a ticket for a train ride I didn’t want to be on to go to a bowling alley in a sketchy neighborhood and $18 in $1 coins because that’s how they roll at the Portland Transit Authority.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Sacajawea but I don’t need eighteen of her likeness ruining the line of my trousers, which at this point were red.  What I mean was that day.  They didn’t turn red; they started out and remained red throughout the day.  It had nothing to do with setting the tone for possible gangland slaying and whatnot, although the neighborhood was a little more CSI than made me comfortable.  That the bowling alley had loaded tater tots, more than made up for it the gang territory feel of the neighborhood.  I’m not going to list where or off of what I would eat a tater tot.  Suffice it to say, when I see potatoes in ‘tot’ form, it is ON, do you hear me?

But getting aback to this homeless person, I think I am some sort of magnet for odd people (keep comments to yourself, it’s too easy) and that was before I embraced the rainbow of chinos that comprise my non-work wardrobe.  Mr. Subway and his woman saw me later that day and gave me an update on his life (his issues with Social Security which I presume he thought he told me about) and asked for more money.  When I reminded him he had just eaten at Subway in the last two hours and I didn’t think it was possible for him to be hungry again, he seemed confused.  I don’t know, maybe his girlfriend is a heavy eater.  Boy, she’s selfish for a homeless person, right?  What’s her deal?

                Portland is an awesome city because they are all about their vintage/thrift store clothing choices.  And there is a difference between vintage and thrift.  Vintage means sometimes ugly stuff from past decades at today’s retail prices.  Thrift means sometimes ugly stuff from today at past decades’ retail prices.  And, you know I love me some thrift stores.  And there are so many of these stores in downtown Portland, I found one that is solely big and tall vintage.  Who knew?  The manager and I became fast friends because she is awesome (Hi, Carlie!) and we had a fun conversation about, among other things, rodeos…in a thrift shop…in Oregon.  After leaving Fat Fancy, I got caught in a sudden sleet storm and sought shelter in the nearest Starbucks, of which there is one every 6 inches.  Seriously, there are two across the street from each other.  When I entered, I was awarded “Best Pants of the Day” and another free scone.  How people equate baked goods with awesome pants is beyond me, but who am I to argue although at this point, mis pantalones (that’s Spanish) were going to be el tighto, por favor (also Spanish), if I kept eating said scones. 

              I could find that homeless guy and give the scone to him, I suppose.  But I’m not going to walk around looking for him since I already went to all the thrift stores.  I’m wearing fuchsia chinos (with a gray pea coat and gray suede wingtips); maybe I’ll just walk to the center of Portland and let him find me.  But, is that really helping him?  Give a man a scone and he eats for one meal; give him teal chinos and he eats for one meal, if he's lucky, but boy doesn't he look good doing it.  I'm trying to stay humble but being all Ghandi-like while wearing Brooks Brothers is hard work, y'all. 

            At the very least I should be rewarded with one of those 'secret' government drones taking a photo of my breathtaking approach to men’s fashion and giving the Department of Defense new ideas to elevate their uniform options.  Khaki and Navy are not exciting colors, y’all. Do you really want people defending your country taking their fashion cues from one of those chain stores?  It’s called Old Navy for a reason, people.  We want a New Navy, which could be purple or at least aqua.  Am I right?  And Olive is not a pop color to anyone except my sister and the Mennonites.  At least Amish women embrace color and can’t we all learn something from them, other than they can be straight-up trashy during Rumspringa.  What?  I watched that documentary.  And no, I’m not talking about the ridiculous, fake ‘Amish Mafia’ that my Daddy watches.

                I have been wearing colored chinos, colored socks and pocket squares for a number of years and it seems that the fashion world is slowly following suit.  Lately it looks like an Easter parade in most menswear departments at better retailers nationwide.  Am I mad at the Johnny-come-latelies jumping on my bandwagon, which sounds like a trailer you pull behind the band bus?  Absolutely not.  If we can make the whole world a better-dressed place, I am all for it.  Plus it pays unexpected dividends: better service when shopping, access to the first-class security fast lane at airports without ticket verification (‘cause you know my government employee tail is not flying first class) and requests for assistance in coordinating outfits from total strangers while shopping.  And, as we have just learned, free foodstuffs. 

And if I become those within my sphere of influences’ frame of reference for awesome, then they will have come into alignment with the thinking I have embraced for far too long to honestly admit.  Colored Chinos + Suede Wingtips = Free Scones.  I wonder if that’s the new math I’ve been hearing about?  No child (or tacky person) left behind, y’all!

                And that is all I’m saying.